A beautiful woman sat down at the table next to theirs. Paul didn’t even give her a second glance, which clearly worried Arthur, judging by his expression.
“Don’t give me that look,” Paul protested. “I’ve had more ‘action’ here than you could imagine. Plus, there’s Kyong. It’s different with her. I feel like I can be myself—no fa?ades, no pretending. I don’t feel forced to be charming. She got to know me through my books, which is ironic, because I don’t really think she likes them much.”
“Well, no one’s forcing her to translate them.”
“Maybe it’s an act to get under my skin, or help me improve as a writer. I don’t know.”
“But between visits, you’re on your own?”
“At the risk of sounding like I spend my whole life paraphrasing you, didn’t you also say it was ‘possible to love someone, even when you’re alone’?”
“My situation was kind of unique, though, don’t you think?”
“So is mine.”
“Listen, you’re a writer, why don’t you write a list of the things that make you happy?”
“I am happy, for Christ’s sake!”
“Right. You seem to be positively bursting with joy.”
“Shit, Arthur, don’t start picking me apart. You don’t know a thing about my life.”
“We’ve known each other since high school. I don’t need a study guide to figure out what’s going on with you. You remember what my mother used to say?”
“She said a lot of things. Actually, speaking of which, I’d like to use the house in Carmel as the setting for my next novel. It’s been ages since I was there.”
“Well, whose fault is that?”
“Want to know what I really do miss?” Paul grinned. “Those walks we used to take. Out to Ghirardelli, or Fort Point, all those nights just hanging out, or fighting in the office, all the elaborate plans for the future without ever getting anywhere . . . just you and me.”
“I bumped into Onega the other day.”
“Did she ask about me?”
“She did. I told her you were living in Paris.”
“Is she still married?”
“She wasn’t wearing a ring.”
“She never should have dumped me. You know, believe it or not,” Paul added with a smile, “she was always jealous . . . of you and me.”
Mia watched the caricaturists at work on Place du Tertre. There was one she particularly liked the look of, a handsome guy dressed in cotton slacks, a white shirt, and a tweed jacket. She sat on the folding chair in front of him and asked him to be as faithful as possible.
“‘The only love that’s faithful is amour propre,’ according to Guitry,” said the caricaturist in a husky voice.
“Guitry was right.”
“Had some bad luck, eh?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you’re alone and you’ve just had your hair done. You know what they say: ‘New look, new life.’”
Mia stared at him, taken aback.
“Do you always speak in quotations?”
“I’ve been drawing portraits for twenty-five years. I’ve learned to read quite a few things in people’s faces. Yours is very pretty, but it looks like it could do with some cheering up. My pencil can take care of that if you keep still.”
Mia sat up straight.
“Are you on holiday in Paris?” the caricaturist asked, sharpening his charcoal.
“Yes and no. I’m spending a few days with a friend. She has a restaurant near here.”
“I bet I know it. Montmartre is like a little village, you know.”
“La Clamada.”
“Ah, the lovely lady from Provence! She’s a brave one, your friend. Her food is creative but reasonably priced. And unlike some, she hasn’t sold out to the tourists. I eat lunch at her place now and then—it has real character.”
Mia looked at the caricaturist’s hands and noticed his wedding ring. David, never far from her thoughts, returned to haunt her.
“Have you ever been attracted to a woman? I mean, other than your wife.”
“Maybe, but only briefly. Only for the time it takes to look at someone else—and to remember how much I loved her.”
“You’re not together with your wife anymore?”
“Oh, we’re still together.”
“So why the past tense?”
“Stop talking now. I’m drawing your mouth.”
Mia let the artist concentrate. When the man was done, he invited her to come and view the final product on his easel. Mia smiled as she saw a face she didn’t recognize.
“Do I really look like that?”
“Today, yes,” said the caricaturist. “I hope you will soon be smiling like you are in the picture.”
He took his phone from his pocket, snapped a picture of Mia, and compared it to the drawing.
“It’s very good,” Mia said. “Could you draw a portrait from just a photo?”
“I might be able to, as long as it’s a clear one.”
“I’ll bring you one of Daisy. I’m sure she would love to see herself as a work of art, and I think you have the talent to do her justice.”
The caricaturist bent over to rummage around in one of the portfolios propped up against his easel. He took out a stiff sheet of paper and handed it to Mia.
“Your friend is positively ravishing,” he said. “She walks past here every morning. Go ahead, take it. It’s a gift.”
On the finely textured paper was a gorgeous drawing of Daisy—not a caricature, but a real portrait, capturing her expression with skill and sensitivity.
“In that case, let me leave you mine in exchange,” she said, before waving good-bye to the caricaturist.
Paul had given them a whistle-stop tour of Paris, much to Lauren’s delight. With the kind of nerve that he alone was capable of, he had cut the line that stretched out at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, saving at least an hour. At the top, a spell of vertigo kept Paul a safe distance away from the edge, gripping the guardrails with shaking hands, while Lauren and Arthur admired the view. After taking the elevator back down again with his eyes clenched shut, he’d regained his dignity and led his friends to the Tuileries Garden.
Seeing children riding on the merry-go-round, Lauren was seized by the need to hear her son’s voice, so she called Nathalia, Joe’s godmother. She invited Arthur to join her on the bench where she was sitting. Paul took the opportunity to go and buy candy from one of the fairground stalls. Lauren watched him in the distance as Arthur chatted with Joe.
Without taking her eyes off Paul, Lauren took the phone from her husband, heaped words of love upon her little boy, promised to bring him a gift from Paris, and was almost disappointed to realize that he didn’t seem to miss her all that much. He was having a great time with his godmother.
She blew kisses into the phone and kept it pressed to her ear as Paul came back toward them, struggling manfully to carry three sticks of cotton candy in one hand.
“How do you think he’s doing, for real?” she whispered to Arthur.
“Was that to me or to Joe?” Arthur asked.
“Joe hung up already.”
“Then why are you pretending to still be on the phone?”
“So Paul keeps his distance.”
“Well . . . I think he’s happy,” Arthur replied.
“I think you’re a pretty terrible liar.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“No. Just an observation. Have you noticed that Paul mutters incessantly?”
“He’s very lonely. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”